


BBCSH 'Precursors'  [Rated NC-17]

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doomed to write fluff, Fluff and Angst, PWP, Post Reichenbach, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing but rehash, probably, but then this a PWP, with tea and biscuits, post-Return. Fluff and then some moar fluff. I am so excited about the new SET! Wheee! (And you know? I don't particularly <i>care</i>, about the canon nor anything else. This is 'heart-writing' and nothing more.  No excuses. Get over it, ppl.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Precursors'  [Rated NC-17]

Author: tigersilver  
Rating; NC-17  
Word Count: 1,700  
Warnings/Summary: Nothing but rehash, probably, but then this a PWP, with tea and biscuits, post Return. Fluff and then some moar fluff. I am so excited about the new SET! Wheee!

 

  


BBCSH  ‘Precursors’

“Cuppa?”

“Mh.”

It’s barely a grunt, possibly more of a sniffing nasal stop of breath, but John takes it as a ‘yes’. And grins a little to himself as he stumps off to the kitchen, stepping carefully over the much abused mannequin his flatmate has arranged artistically on the floor near the entry.

He supposes he can only be glad Sherlock had thoughtfully placed a plastic sheet beneath the mutilated dummy before he shot at it, and that at quite close range with what had to have been a paint gun, judging from the rings of dried red spatter. Well…John hopes it’s only red paint, but at least the substance doesn’t smell particularly foul and it’s not showing any signs of rot or mould, yet.  Been three days now he’s been stepping over it, but that’s all right.

“Biscuit?”

He pokes his head curiously ‘round the corner to ask the question, peering at Sherlock’s silk-wrapped spine adamantly turned against the world for any minute movement that might indicate an interest in sustenance. The detective doesn’t appear to stir a millimeter but John waits a longish moment, observing patiently.

There! There’s a subtle twitch in one hunched shoulder, one that shouts as loud as anything as to his flatmate’s current interest in eating: ‘one biscuit, just one, and it must be a chocolate one; thank you, John.’

Sherlock of course doesn’t say any of those words aloud, and particularly not the ‘thank you, John’, but John has become quite adept at interpreting the silent language of the world’s only consulting detective. It’s like the bees, as they dance. Or so Sherlock has intimated, at verbose frenetic length, on occasion.

For instance? At the moment, it’s the slight curl of bared toes, long and pale and pinkening prettily as they scrunch, gently depressing the fabric of the sofa, which speaks to the offer of tea-and-biscuits as being acknowledged as a precursor. A welcome one, brilliant as a flashing road marker, and as vivid as many a sunrise over London they’ve watched together, entwined on that same sofa.

John’s flatmate is looking to get some, and he’s using the old tea-and-biscuits trick as a form of flattery to win John over. And it _is_ a trick, as the sly git likely won’t deign to touch them until after, when he’s genuinely parched from exertion.

Upon which later moment John will be forced to pad back out the kitchen, starkers, and produce more tea, and ‘ _hot_ this time, John, for god’s sake! Cold tea is just rubbish!’

This prior knowledge doesn’t prevent John from grinning madly into the newly cleaned fridge as he searches for fresh milk to splash into their mugs, nor does it halt the satisfied little giggle from climbing his throat and escaping his quirked lips, right at the corners. No, not at all. He’s quite accustomed.

For all Sherlock’s hints and clues as to what he desires mostly come in a startlingly wide range, as varied as the moods of the detective himself. He’s perfectly capable of slamming John up against whatever surface and devouring his shocked bits in one gulp, renting layers left and right, just as he’s equally likely to sulk for three hours at a time, expecting John to understand his inner Sherlockian needs fully, simply by John’s judging solely the force of the impatient bat of Sherlock’s bloody ridiculously long eyelashes against his sullen cheekbones at speed and/or the exact number of sidelong glares he sends the skull’s way. It’s all a bit ridiculous, but John’s accustomed.

He likes it. Just as the freak on the sofa likes his crime scenes. Oh, poor, poor little Sally. All this time, and she’s never quite learnt the code.

‘Cuppa?’, however, when followed closely by the word ‘biscuit’ usually is the precursor of one thing only in the Holmes-Watson home: ‘Let’s shag, shall we? Before I go quite, quite raving from the wanting of you.’

Pleasant thing is, it can be—and often is, now—either one of them doing the asking. The tea preparation. And the shagging. And then the bared-arse trip back to the kitchen after. Holmes, that long tall drink of sardonic, participates.

Actively.

It’s probably that happy thought that has Dr. John Watson still chuckling softly as he re-enters the cluttered living room, dodging the stacks and piles, and stepping over papers and detritus his flatmate had previously strewn on the carpet in a snit.

The tea tray goes to rest on one of the side tables, safely out of the way of mishap. Sometimes they manage to roll off the sofa altogether and it’s best not place fragile items like John’s favourite mug in needless danger.

His hands, warmed by the general handling of the tea-making things, are hot and damp when they alight on the obstinately gorgeous rump of his still-mute lover, but John doesn’t mind it at all. Or the elevation of his own heart rate or the indubitable widening of his pupils, either. Or the groping, which is intense and quite, quite meaningful.

He spares a moment to it, applying his heart and his soul.

Effective measure: he’s snatched up by a no-longer lazy detective in the blink of an eye the next instant, wrestled bodily down atop a scantily garbed, fully engaged groin, a flat belly and lean torso; is surrounded at the hip area by a pair of deliciously long and taut dead-white legs, clamping hard, and then is subject to the practical demonstration that one Sherlock Holmes’s very handsome mouth is made for more than just spitting out deductions and snark, variously and certainly.

‘Stroppy detective’ is all gone, magick’d away like it never has been, and it’s all mouth-hand-skin now, and _panting_. Animal, bloody animal magic, and oh, but John’s never been happier about it, being one of those.

Vague noises and little moans and gasps. These sounds are the ones John likes in particular, the ones he treasures. These, and the sound of the cap twisting off the tube of lubricant that commonly lives in the sofa, tucked comfortably under second cushion.

He’s a bit dexterous, Sherlock is; could’ve been a magician in a different age. In this age, he’s just spot on, fingers sliding wet and smooth into John’s jeans and pants, opening them up with a wicked twist-and-haul down motion. Shimmying slick digits round John’s cock and then under.

Bollocks, circle the perineum, then cock again, rubbing to a sodden frenzy. It’s perfectly clear in a matter of seconds which way this will turn up, this round. John sighs, willingly, and eases up as much as he’s able. And then starts into militant action, jumping up.

Practical matters, blast it.

There’s a difficult thirty second interlude where he has to wrench himself away from those exploring fingers, stand upright, and strip down to his singlet and gaping-wide shirt in the chill air, losing denims, pants and jersey along the way. Clanking away, the belt buckle toppling some sift of papers, but all that protective fabric goes by the wayside in short order, down to the littered carpet. Of course, there’s never been once a magic moment when the clothes just disappear themselves, but then Sherlock’s not wearing a bloody thing under his wrapper and that’s pretty fucking fantastic.

He clambers back aboard, and his flatmate’s hips thrust up immediately. He’s very welcome, there, atop his pet detective.

“John, John,” Sherlock breathes, and drags him down and into a drugging kiss. It’s a bit perfect. “John!”

They’re accustomed, of course. It doesn’t take much, really, and John’s arse is still loose from earlier, pre-sulk, so it really requires less time than usual before the detective’s cock is well situated in the good doctor’s bum.

…All to the good, really; John counts it as a blessing. He’s been primed since he took down the new packet of biscuits from the cupboard and laid five out on a plate: two each and one spare to bicker over.

Sherlock’s clearly been primed since he cast aside the latest cold file Lestrade has couriered over, and possibly even before that, from when Mrs Hudson dropped by for a gentle little gossip.

No, actually? John’s been willing again since five a.m. in the morning, when his lover woke him by breaching that hole and filling it fantastically, a great whomping beast at his backside, energetic and adoring.  

It’s a bit rough in the beginning; always is.

But then…good. So very good.

When he comes, John closes his eyes, though he doesn’t want to. He’d rather see Sherlock, tight of facial skin and wildly rolling of eyeball, beneath him, leaving go. John adores it, that blissful moment, that split-second when the world fractures, and there’s only two of them left, before all. Despite all.

At forty-one years of age, Dr John Watson enjoys his teas and his biscuits. Chocolate-dipped, by choice.  

He especially enjoys them when they are but a precursor. Code, like UMQRA may’ve been mistaken for maybe once, perhaps, but this time ‘round so…bloody…true.

“Cuppa, John?” Sherlock says, the next day, come four o’clock, and John looks up from his news sheets. But he’s not at all surprised.

“Please.”

There’s a pause, and a minor crash—nothing to worry over—and then Sherlock pokes his head round, and John notes a little strand of sterling-grey silver glinting in the black-brown-ginger which he’s noticed now and again recently. Yes, alright. Been a while; not unexpected to see the changes of age in his flatmate’s hair. He’s his own, doesn’t he?

“Biscuit?”

No, he’s his own changes, hasn’t he? Thinner and older, and that bloody damned cane back again, for a deucedly long stretch. But.

But? Gone again, pretty soon, now. He’ll wager.

John nods, pleased again. The cane lives in the hall closet; the lubricant in Sherlock’s sofa. “Yes…ah? Do we—? Still?”

“We do. Won’t be a moment, then.”

In a moment there’ll be a tray of tea things, clattering and fragrant; in a moment, John will be dragged up out of his familiar old armchair and cast down upon the sofa, somehow, at Sherlock’s bidding. And he won’t object, not one bit. He’ll go, willingly.

And it’s all right. Really, it is.

Angelo _would_ approve.

_Fin._

  



End file.
